


The Study of Dreams

by fourfreedoms, joyfulseeker



Series: A Handy Guide To Making You Feel Good [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Cunnilingus, Fingering, First Times, M/M, Urban Fantasy, Vaginal Sex, sex transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyfulseeker/pseuds/joyfulseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When it had first happened, body melting into this new form right there in front of all the guys, he’d demanded an answer from Jonny. “Did you see this coming?”</i>
</p><p>A five first times fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Study of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot of unprotected sex happening here. Let us just pretend in this fantasy world where Jonathan Toews has magical powers, STDs don't exist. Yay. DO NOT DO LIKE JONNY AND KANER, KIDS. PUT THE CONDOM ON THE BANANA. 
> 
> (Also, to quote joyfulseeker: "how did this story end up 14,000 words?" Truly, we cannot be stopped)

Patrick has always considered himself an adventurous guy in bed. He doesn't think he has many unacknowledged urges. He's fucked and been fucked in bedrooms and bar bathrooms across North America. If the common theory is that Tiresias Transition Syndrome is the result of a repressed mind, then Patrick should be last on the list. He doesn't know why this has happened to him.

**1\. They'd told him all he had to do to change back was to get off…**

...but it's not fucking happening. He's tired of the breasts and the long hair and the stupid small hands. Pussy never seemed so complicated from the other side of it. The guys had been making stupid jokes about treating the experience like porn, but the thing is, Patrick is still Patrick. It’s alien and weird, but it’s still him and he’s not narcissistic enough to be able to dissociate the small, compact, blonde chick in the mirror from himself, even if he does have stupidly pretty tits. 

Just looking at himself isn't doing shit for him. He glares down at his crotch. He'd tried fingering himself earlier and he could find his clit, no problem, but touching it hadn't felt good at all. It felt like he was trying to jerk himself with a dry hand, too much friction, almost painful. So he'd gotten some lube, and now he's just greasy. He parts his folds and rubs his finger up his clit again, hopeful. He spreads his fingers and works them in a circle, which feels a little better, but still not phenomenal. When he presses in a little too hard, hoping to move this show along, that good feeling dissipates. Patrick lets out a breath through his nose, dropping his head.

When it had first happened, body melting into this new form right there in front of all the guys, he’d demanded an answer from Jonny. “Did you see this coming?”

The art is strong in Jonny’s family, but especially in Jonny himself. If anybody could’ve warned Patrick that he was about to be TTS’d at the most inconvenient time, it would’ve been him. He was always having stupid dreams that never quite made sense but then had an eerie way of coming true. But he was also the asshole who wouldn’t give him a heads up if he thought the fallout would be hilarious enough. 

“Like I dream about you, Kaner,” Jonny replied with a laugh. 

And now he’s stuck on such a simple little hurdle as masturbation, because there is nothing happening down there. 

Look. Breasts. That belong to him. He raises his head, eyes skating across the counter. His watch sits face up. He can see he's been in here for thirty minutes already. It's 2:30. He has a game in 3 hours. His life is no end of problems right now. No hockey, and he's starting to doubt every sexual experience he's ever had with a girl.

"How's it going?" Jonny asks through the door.

And then there's that asshole.

“How the fuck do you think?” Patrick asks angrily.

There’s a long pause, then, “Try the shower head.”

“Is that what Google tells you?” Patrick says. 

“You have talked to actual women, right?” Jonny asks. 

Patrick snorts, but he’s stepping inside the shower, flicking the taps on. These are starving times here. He can’t really afford not to try Jonny’s suggestions. When the water feels appropriately warm, he moves under the spray. He’s seen enough porn with Hitachi magic wands to know how this is supposed to go. This should be pretty easy, he thinks as he’s unlooping the detachable shower head from its bracket. Still, he takes a deep breath before directing the spray up between his thighs and…

Patrick yelps, dropping the shower head with a loud clang against the porcelain, nearly slipping in the process. 

“Did you get off?” Jonny calls. 

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you! Did I get off? Jesus christ, that’s a fucking torture device.” 

“What?” Jonny replies, thumping on the door. “What are you—”

Patrick has a terrifying thought. He’s heard some horror stories about girls who’ve never had orgasms. “Fuck me, what if it’s broken?” 

“Are you kidding right now?” Jonny says incredulously and thumps the door again. “It is _not_ broken! You clearly don’t know what the hell you’re doing down there.” 

“Fuck off, as if you could do any better,” Patrick yells back, but he rests his head against the tile in defeat. He's honestly better with oral, he's had girls pulling his hair and crying his name. He can't go down on himself, though.

He hears the sound of the door unlatching after a moment and straightens. “Jonny, what are you doing?” 

“Helping your sorry ass out,” Jonny says darkly and yanks the shower curtain aside. Patrick doesn’t even bother to cover himself, because well, this body doesn’t seem like his, even though at the moment, the insistent tingling between his thighs says otherwise. Jonny’s clearly caught off guard by it though, because he pauses, hand fisted tight on the curtain, staring straight at his tits and then down to the water-dark strawberry curls at the vee of his legs. Patrick stares back at him. Well, this is really fucking awkward. Jonny’s totally perving on him right now. 

“What are you doing?” Patrick repeats. 

“Uh,” Jonny says dumbly and blinks a few times. After a moment he visibly gathers himself together and then incomprehensibly steps into the shower with Patrick, still in his shirt and shorts. The shower head is still jetting away at their feet. Jonny bends down and grabs it, testing it against his hand. His eyebrows draw together and he gives Patrick a disbelieving look, before his eyes start wandering again. “It’s not supposed to drill through concrete,” he says absently. “What was this, the power-massage setting?”

“Shut up,” Patrick mutters. 

Jonny flicks it down several settings, until water jets out in rhythmic pulses. “I think something like this would be better…” He holds it out to Patrick, but Patrick wants absolutely none of that shit and throws up his hands defensively. 

Jonny rolls his eyes and hooks the showerhead back up in its bracket. He’s getting wet now, black boxers and white shirt clinging to his body. This whole experience is very, very weird. Patrick’s ruminating on this quite hard and when Jonny reaches out and pulls Patrick back against his body, he is completely unprepared and nearly slips again. 

“Careful, moron,” Patrick says, looking up at him. Fuck, he’s so much taller than Patrick now. The feeling is so unexpected, it makes the next few words come out a little quavery. “I’d rather not die in the shower with you. Hard thing to explain to my family.” 

"Eyes forward, Kaner," Jonny tells him like the drill sergeant he is. 

Patrick swallows. He knows that he, in essence, challenged Jonny to finger him. But that doesn’t stop him from being uncomfortable and unsure about the whole thing. Only the fact that he’s never backed down from Jonathan Toews in his entire life keeps him from telling Jonny to go finger himself if he’s so excited about the idea. 

Jonny huffs out a laugh, almost as if he knows what Patrick’s thinking and then he tweaks one of Patrick’s new distended bubblegum pink nipples. 

“What the—” Patrick says, jerking in his arms. Jonny follows it up with a deliberate swipe of his thumb, a sensation that arrows straight down between his legs, to the center of him. 

“There you go,” Jonny says as Patrick relaxes back into him. He slides one hand down Patrick's belly, and then Patrick feels Jonny’s head turn as he scrubs his face against his shoulder, dashing water out of his eyes. "Hey, you gotta widen your legs for me here, asshole."

Patrick shuffles his feet farther apart. He's not sure how Jonny expects to do better than he did. Jonny trails a gentle finger just above Patrick's clit and presses in, working around in a circle, which actually doesn't feel bad. Patrick spreads his legs a little wider.

"See, like that," Jonny mutters. "It's not that hard."

"The perspective is different," Patrick says. "And I haven't turned back yet, so don't swagger too hard."

It's starting to turn him on, though. He finds himself, body beyond his control, arching into the tease of Jonny’s stroking fingers. He has no intention of letting Jonny know just how much it’s getting to him, but it’s sort of a moot point when Jonny drags his middle finger so lightly over his clit that Patrick shudders and moans, head falling inexorably back on Jonny’s shoulder. 

Jonny keeps up his stroking rhythm, but his other hand comes up to cup Patrick's breast, thumbing across his nipple. "You like those?" Patrick asks breathlessly. With his female vocal chords it comes out sounding like some porn dialogue. 

"Joke of the universe that gave you such good breasts," Jonny says in Patrick's ear.

“ _That’s_ the joke?” Patrick says. His cunt throbs, and when Jonny’s thumb drags across his folds, he hits a spot that makes Patrick’s knees weaken. Jonny’s solid behind him, taking more of Patrick’s weight. Patrick’s been one of the shortest guys on a hockey team his entire career, but he’s never felt enveloped like this with both Jonny’s arms around him. Joke of the universe, for sure. Jonny brushes his clit again, and Patrick’s thighs shake.

“We’re gonna break our necks,” Jonny mutters, which is all the warning Patrick gets before Jonny takes a step back, hands on Patrick’s hips, and brings him back with him to sit on the shower bench, spread over his thighs.

“Whoa,” Patrick says involuntarily, hands flying down to brace himself. He squirms, spread like this on Jonny’s lap, his feet don’t even touch the ground. He pauses, then shifts again in Jonny’s lap. “Uh.” He’s got to bite down on a bubble of incredulous laughter that’s trying to win free of his throat. “Got a problem, there, Jonny?” Jonny’s shorts-covered erection presses unmistakably against Patrick’s ass, he’s almost riding the solid ridge of it as he struggles to keep his balance.

“Ah, fuck off, like you’d be any better,” Jonny says. “You’re right on top of my dick.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Patrick says. “Just, seems like a _hard situation_ here for you.”

Patrick should have known not to bait Jonny, he does know, but he’s still not expecting it when Jonny spreads his folds and slides one finger inside Patrick’s cunt, curving it up while he drags his palm over Patrick’s clit. Patrick jerks, mouth falling open, and Jonny loops his arm around his waist to keep him in place.

“Oh fuck, do that again,” Patrick says, that breathy female voice again, and that out of everything turn his crank so hard, or maybe it’s the way Jonny’s moving his hand steadily. Because now it’s like everything’s starting to work for him, the scratch of Jonny’s shorts on his thighs, Jonny’s knees pressing his legs apart, the fluttering of his cunt around Jonny’s finger. Patrick has no frame of reference for this. Jonny curls his finger again, pressing up, and Patrick whimpers, head falling back onto Jonny’s shoulder. He can’t even collect himself enough to rub against Jonny’s hand. Jonny’s got to do it all himself.

Jonny laughs, the vibrations moving through Patrick. Patrick would object but Jonny pushes in a second finger and he can’t help arching his back at the stretch, his cunt catching on Jonny’s knuckles. Besides, Patrick can’t avoid grinding up on his dick in this position. He doesn’t even want to is the crazy thing, but Jonny’s beginning to sound a little winded from it. This fucker can laugh all he wants, but Patrick can feel his hypocrisy riding between his ass cheeks. Boy, can he feel it. He’s clenching down now as he rolls his hips, trying to follow Jonny’s hand.

Jonny sweeps his free hand along the sensitive inside of Patrick’s thigh, fingertips skimming over tensed up muscle. That delicate pass of his hand gets to Patrick almost more than the steady pressure of Jonny’s fingers. Patrick moans, and then Jonny’s pulling his thighs wider, spreading them even farther over his lap. Patrick hooks his feet around Jonny’s calves so that he has something to push off against. Just in time for Jonny to press just above his clit right at the exact moment he crooks the fingers thrust inside Patrick into what he can only assume is his g-spot. Patrick clenches down, overwhelmed, grabbing Jonny’s forearms with too tight hands. He feels the flexion of those strong muscles as they bunch and shift underneath his grip, working unerringly to get Patrick off. 

“Yeah, like that,” Jonny murmurs, and Patrick’s carrying this to the grave, but that’s what tumbles him right over the edge, body tightening around Jonny’s hand, knees pressing tight against Jonny’s thighs as he arches and comes.

He’s abruptly bigger, Jonny drawing his hand away to wipe his fingers on his shorts. The shower still rains down on them, and Patrick feels woozy with relief, limbs tingling from the orgasm. He’s sagged back against Jonny, still sprawled naked, thighs draped over Jonny’s legs. He’s a lot heavier than he was. Jonny’s shifting underneath him, still hard.

That haziness fades fast, especially when Jonny starts shoving at him. “Whoops,” Patrick laughs.

“Get off,” Jonny orders.

“I just did,” Patrick says and then has to stumble to his feet when Jonny dumps him out of his lap. He glances over his shoulder as he steps out of the tub, one hand on the wall to brace himself. Jonny looks ridiculous, that pissy expression, hair bedraggled, wet clothing outlining his still-hard dick. “Well, guess I’ll leave you to that,” Patrick says, sketching a salute and grabbing a towel on his way out the door.

If his knees are still shaking as he walks away, that’s no one’s business but his. 

**2\. Kaner is not amused. Why does this shit keep happening?**

He tries the shower head again this time, on the setting that Jonny recommended. They’ve got a game against San Jose this evening and just like last time, he doesn’t have time for this shit. He doesn’t know why it keeps happening on the road or only hours before situations where he really needs to be, you know, a dude. But that is not the point, the point is, Patrick still doesn’t like the shower head. It’s itchy, somehow, and every time he gets close it slides away from him at the last second. 

“You know California has a fucking drought on, right?” Jonny calls through the door. 

“Go back to your room, fuckwad,” Patrick shouts back, thoroughly frustrated. He aims the shower head back at the wall, then shoves it back into its holder. He tries touching himself lightly, rubbing gently above his clit the way Jonny had done, circling down to his labia, then back up. He takes a sharp, irritated breath through his nose. Everything he tries himself just isn’t as good. It’s like he’s trying to tickle himself or something, there’s no added zing like when Jonny had done it. Nothing that tips over from lackluster into great. Is it a matter of timing? He closes his eyes and tries to remember how it had felt when Jonny got him going.

“I thought you figured it out,” Jonny says.

“Obviously _not_ ,” Patrick growls.

The door opens again. “Did you turn down the pressure—”

“Yes!” Patrick yells, socking the side of the shower. He tips his head back, staring up at the ceiling, and fists his hands at his sides. He’s never been less aroused in his life. He turns his head to glare at Jonny when he opens the shower curtain. “I don’t like the fucking shower head, Jonny.” He gestures at himself. “ _This body_ doesn’t like the shower head. Maybe all your girls were wrong.” He squeezes at the back of his neck.

“Okay,” Jonny says slowly. “Well, stop stressing, man. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure that doesn’t help.” 

Those sorts of comments make Patrick want to grab the showerhead and spray it right in Jonny’s face. Jonny must see something, there, because he holds up his hands, frowning apologetically. 

“Did you start light?” Jonny asks. “You seem kind of…” He goes a little pink in the cheeks. He soldiers on, “Sensitive.”

“Yes,” Patrick mutters. He sighs. “I wish I could go down on myself. I’m better at that.” He glances over at Jonny, who just stands there uselessly, letting the cold air in and offering stupid suggestions. “Either get in and help out, or get out, asshole.” 

Jonny raises his eyebrows. Water is starting to dampen his hair, spraying dark spots on the neckline of his t-shirt. It’s not actually a surprise when he pulls the shower curtain all the way back and steps into the tub between Patrick and the showerhead. Patrick edges back to make space. When he pulls the curtain back into place, he gives Patrick an uncertain look in the dim light. 

Patrick doesn’t follow his intentions until he kneels down, and puts one hand on Patrick’s hip, but after that it’s pretty unmistakable. He’d thought, maybe, fingering again.

“Oh,” Patrick says. “Are you any good at this? You never said.”

That knocks the edge of uncertainty right off Jonny’s face. He snorts. “I’ve never had any complaints, but if you don’t want me to, I won’t.” He sits back on his heels. 

“No, uh, knock yourself out.”

Jonny shifts forward, hands going around Patrick’s hips. Patrick puts his hands on the safety bar behind him to brace himself. He spreads his legs apart, still looking down at Jonny, at the wet hair on the crown of his head. Jonny looks up right before he leans in, just a brief moment of eye contact that surprises Patrick and makes his cunt clench down on nothing, a quick throbbing before Jonny’s licking in with soft, light strokes. Patrick’s hips twitch in Jonny’s hands.

Jonny’s not quite getting him right, too slow and tentative or something. Patrick tilts his head back, closing his eyes. “Hey, faster.” When Jonny grazes right over his clit, Patrick rocks up at the feeling, onto the balls of his feet. “Oh, shit,” he breathes. “Do that again.” 

Jonny pulls him closer, away from the wall, palms cupping his ass. The only thing keeping Patrick upright is his arms on the safety bar and Jonny. He looks up again, tongue playing over Patrick’s clit, but in a frustrating pattern Patrick can’t track and can’t move into. Then he swirls his tongue in a shape Patrick deciphers instantly. Especially when he does it again a second later, and Patrick clenches down on an embarrassing wave of arousal.

“You dick,” Patrick says, hoisting his weight on his arms so he can thump Jonny in the side with his toes. 

Jonny flexes his fingers on Patrick’s ass, grinning. “I thought you’d like it, you write your number on everything else.”

Patrick does like it. He actually does that regularly with girls, because it’s fun for him, and it’s a shape that tends to work, the tight circles. Fuck Jonny, because when he pulls Patrick back toward his mouth, he keeps going over Patrick’s clit in that tight figure-eight that has Patrick moving, pushing in toward his face, shuddering. Maybe it’s his number, maybe it’s that _Jonny_ is on his knees in front of him, drawing his number on him over and over again, but either way, Patrick realizes, this might be over sooner rather than later. And it’s stupid, but he suddenly, desperately wants it to last. 

“Fuck,” Patrick says, his high, female voice stuttering in the middle and then drawing the word out. “Lower, man. Go lower.”

Jonny moves down, tonguing over Patrick’s entrance, circling the tip just inside. It doesn’t do much, so Patrick doesn’t know who he learned that from.

“No,” Patrick says, angling his hips. “Just, over it and back up.” Jonny looks up at him. He licks up in a solid stripe all the way to Patrick’s clit, sucking on it at the end. “It’s not a dick,” Patrick says breathlessly. “That’s fucking useless. Don’t get all fancy, just lick me.” He breaks off in swearing when Jonny switches back to those light flickers of his tongue. 

Jonny’s eyes slip closed. He bends his head, licking back up again and again. Each time his tongue moves over Patrick’s entrance, it sends a shock right through him, making him arch into Jonny’s mouth. Both of Jonny’s hands are taking most of his weight, and Patrick’s clinging to the safety bar, hands full, but he remembers Jonny’s finger inside him pushing over his g-spot. His cunt clenches down in fluttering spasms.

He can’t seem to shut up, telling Jonny how good it feels, and Jonny keeps gripping him tighter, urging him forward, like he’s as turned on as Patrick. His lashes have turned dark and spiky on his cheeks from the shower spray, his face flushed. “You like this,” Patrick says, low. “You like getting me off like this.” 

Jonny moans, straight into Patrick’s pussy. Patrick’s hands go white-knuckled as his arms shake. He can hear himself, voice echoing off the tile as he cries out, and he’d always thought girls that sounded this overwrought were faking it, but he’s dizzy, finding it hard to catch his breath, and then Jonny lifts him off his feet entirely. His stomach swoops and he grinds down, legs tightening around Jonny’s arms, that flash of nerves flooding his entire body. He’s caught in a precarious position, he can’t let go of the bar even if he wanted to.

Jonny raises his head. “I got you, you won’t fall.” He lowers his face again, eyes closing again. He’s got a good face, but right now in this haze of pleasure, it seems like the best thing Patrick’s ever seen. 

Jonny’s t-shirt is molded to his back muscles, contours shifting under the wet fabric as he pulls him closer, licking at his clit exactly like Patrick told him to. Patrick starts to lose coherent thought, overwhelmed by the sight and feeling. He’s panting now, body tensing in waves, and when he finally comes, it’s just a solid white-out, brain full of static, no signal.

When Jonny lowers him carefully back to the ground after he’s turned back, it takes Patrick a long moment before he can straighten up from his lean on the wall, letting go of his grip on handrail. Jonny hasn’t moved since he let Patrick go. He’s sprawled back against the side of the tub, color still high in his cheeks, eyes dark as he looks at Patrick. He’s obscenely hard, his wet shorts hiding nothing. He looks wrecked.

Patrick could do something, here. He could offer to give Jonny a hand. It seems fair, after everything. 

Jonny clears his throat and struggles to his feet. He’s palming himself absently, like he can’t help himself, shoulder almost close enough to touch Patrick’s naked chest. He draws the curtain back and steps out, and Patrick hears the bathroom door open and close a second later. 

Patrick scrubs his hand over his hair and finally turns the shower off with a shaky hand. He’s exhausted. How long until their next game? He thinks he needs another nap.

**3\. Don’t Fuck In The Shower.**

He’s right in the middle of a conversation with Shawsy when it happens a third time. One moment Shawsy’s loudly yelling about the new Terminator trailer, and the next he’s staring at Patrick’s chest going, “Uh, again, bro?” and blinking owlishly. 

Patrick never feels it happen. That’s the thing that weirds him out the most. That his body can change and he can’t even sense it happening. 

“Motherf—” Patrick curses, fisting a hand in his jeans to hold them up. He veritably sprints back to his room like that, one hand hauling up his pants, the other arm banded across his chest to to stop the errant bouncing of his breasts, long blonde curls streaming out behind him. Patrick’s family has been abeyant for at least seven generations. He’s got no clue why he’s suddenly turning into a girl. Repeatedly. Especially now of all times.

He’s got like eight hours though before game time, so at least that gives him enough time to rub one out. He’s come twice with this equipment. He’s pretty sure he’s got the hang of it. Only, when he gets back to his room and finds the connecting door open between his and Jonny’s adjoining suites and the sound of the shower running, his first thought is not to close the door and deal with it himself. 

He wavers back and forth for a long moment, just listening to the water hitting the tiles and presumably Jonny. He and Jonny have been pretty cool about this whole thing. Well, the last time it got a little weird. But Jonny had been in good spirits when Patrick had run into him again right before they headed over to SAP Center. And you know, Patrick got it. It hadn’t really been Patrick that Jonny was going down on, just this female shell who was laid out exactly like Jonny’s type. And for Patrick—well, he had a job to do. It just went faster when he did it with Jonny. 

He strips off his button down and kicks out of his jeans and he crosses the threshold from one room to another. 

“I have a problem,” Patrick announces, female voice echoing in the bathroom. 

There’s no sound besides the spray for a moment and then Jonny says, in almost the exact same tone of voice as Shawsy, “Again, Kaner?” 

“Yeah, I fucking know,” Patrick replies and pulls the curtain back with an efficient yank. “But it’s cool,” Patrick starts to say as Jonny turns around, running a hand through his hair, nonchalant in his nakedness like he always is. “Because we got this…” he finishes weakly, staring at Jonny’s body. There’s water beading on his chest, running in rivulets down his abs to his cock. Patrick has never looked. Teammates are off-limits, but god he’s looking now. Jonny’s a good looking dude. Patrick’s noted this before, because he has eyes in his head, but this female body is like stupid into it. 

Jonny’s cock, the one Patrick can’t take his eyes off of, starts to stiffen up under his gaze. Patrick feels an answering surge of wetness between his legs. God, he wants that dick in him. 

Patrick doesn’t want to know what his face looks like. Jonny’s eyes have gone all dark. He’s just standing there, arms at his sides, letting Patrick stare at him. Patrick opens up his mouth to chirp him for, as per usual, being a shameless exhibitionist, but what comes out instead is, “Fucking in the shower is a terrible idea.” 

Jonny laughs. “Yeah? Had a few accidents, hot stuff?” He leans forward, propping his forearm up on the curtain rod. “You want something, Kaner?” 

Patrick swallows. Jonny’s mouth tilts up at the corner and it makes Patrick so very, very aware of the fact that he ran in here, naked, with every intention of demanding Jonny get him off. For hockey reasons. And now he’s practically salivating over Jonny’s cock.

“This is not where I parked my car,” Patrick says softly. 

Jonny laughs again and climbs out of the tub and just like that, Patrick’s scrambling backwards, knocking Jonny’s hair product off of the counter and hopping up, dragging Jonny in close with his legs. Jonny’s hands close around Patrick’s hips, pulling him flush with the edge of the counter. His dick traces a path between Patrick’s folds, and Patrick actually feels himself getting wetter, pulse throbbing in his cunt. He brings his hand down and slides his fingers inside to feel how slick he is. He didn't feel anything like that before, the shower washed it away. 

His fingers come away shiny and slick. He feels that throb in his cunt a second time. Jonny takes his wrist and brings them to his mouth, tongue sliding down the seam between his index and middle. Patrick's eyes go wide watching Jonny's pink tongue flicker over the tips, suddenly vividly recalling that tongue working over his clit. He's so distracted that when Jonny finally pushes inside it catches him off guard. 

Patrick cries out, dropping back in a tense arch. Only an arm around Jonny's neck and the palm that Jonny has at the small of his back keep him from crashing into the mirror. He squeezes his eyes shut, just feeling it—every single inch of Jonny's dick. 

“Okay?” Jonny breathes, hips beginning to rock. 

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, yeah,” Patrick tells him, clinging to him. His eyes pop open again as Jonny starts taking longer strokes, fucking in at just the right angle to make his thighs quake. When he turns his head, he’s shocked by their reflection in the medicine cabinet. He can’t look away from Jonny’s ass-muscles flexing as he moves, the way his shoulders tighten as he holds Patrick closer at the end of each thrust. It sends a punch of arousal through him, makes him clench down on Jonny so they both moan, Jonny’s head dropping to Patrick’s shoulder. They look good together, Patrick thinks hazily. He thought looking at himself in this body did nothing for him, but clearly he just wasn’t looking at the right thing. Jonny’s like a work of art, here, all those muscles moving under his skin. 

Jonny laughs into Patrick’s neck. He lifts his head. “Thanks, man.”

Patrick has a second to realize, horrified, that he’s been talking this whole time, before Jonny drags him closer, nose nudging at his cheek. He kisses Jonny out of self-protection, turning his head to press their lips together, closing his eyes so he can’t see them in the mirror. The image of Jonny moving inside him, the perfect fit of their bodies, is going to haunt him and he can’t have that. At the end of this, Jonny’s going to have to go back to being a teammate. Whose body is his job and not something Patrick’s allowed to want. Jonny tilts his head, following Patrick’s lead easily, hips still moving but slowing to match the pace Patrick sets as they kiss, until they’re rocking together, Patrick’s arms curled tight around Jonny’s neck.

It’s sweet, almost tender. All Patrick’s hookups have gone more like the last two times with Jonny. Fast, and everyone’s out to get off. This isn’t how he thought Jonny would fuck him. Jonny’s just grinding his hips in now, circling, making Patrick gasp into his mouth and draw welts down his back with his nails. He wants it harder, faster, the bite of pain to get it out of this confusing territory that’s making his chest feel tight. 

Jonny complies easily, tipping Patrick all the way back against the mirror, bracing his palm next to Patrick’s head. His hips snap up harder and faster, Patrick urging him on, but the lips he runs down Patrick’s throat are soft. His touch a gentle counterpoint to the fierce rhythm of his hips. That’s worse some how. Patrick’s not there yet, not even all that close, but he still feels ready to fall apart. 

Jonny gets a hand under his ass, tilting him up into each stroke, hoisting him so easily. Patrick chokes, grip tightening enough on Jonny that he grunts. He tightens his legs around Jonny’s hips, trying to exert some measure of control. It must work, because Jonny slows. 

“Backseat driver,” Jonny tells him, nose skimming his cheek. Patrick wants to make some chirp about Jonny doing it right, but the thing is. He really, really is and they both know it. He catches sight of them in the mirror again and a funny thought occurs to him. 

“Just your type like this,” Patrick says, looking at his own bouncing tits and soft curls. "You're so fucking predictable, man."

"Yeah, who came to who here?" Jonny points out breathlessly. He's trying to keep up the slow, steady rhythm Patrick had set, but each thrust is less careful than the last. He hikes him up so that he can get his mouth on Patrick's breast, tongue cleverly flicking his nipple. 

Patrick keens, attempting to screw himself back on Jonny's dick. Jonny tenses up. His shoulders bunch under Patrick's hands, and he moves convulsively against him, arms starting to shake.

"Sorry," he says into Patrick's throat. "I'm gonna..." He comes, cursing, hips shoved up tight against Patrick's. 

It isn't until Jonny detangles them that Patrick realizes he was absently stroking Jonny's neck, fingertips twisting in the soft hair at his nape. 

"Sorry," Jonny repeats, a small, rueful smile twisting his lips. "Here, let me..." He puts his hands on Patrick's knees, starting to kneel.

"Hey, no," Patrick protests, tightening his legs around Jonny's waist. He spoke without thinking, not ready to let go, but as good as Jonny is with his mouth, that's not what Patrick wants. He draws Jonny’s head down for another kiss, moaning into his mouth when Jonny sucks on his lower lip and directing Jonny’s right hand to his swollen cunt. He likes Jonny’s body slotted against his like this, slim hips between his thighs, the heat thrown off of all of that bare gold skin. When Jonny drags two fingers over Patrick’s slick folds, he tugs Jonny impossibly closer, biting at his mouth.

Jonny cards his hand through Patrick’s hair, winding it around his fist in a singularly possessive move, as he delicately strokes over the hood of Patrick’s clit with one fingertip. It makes Patrick cry out into his mouth, hips flexing to get more of it. Jonny keeps kissing him, lips soft on Patrick’s, sliding his fingers inside him where he’s still tender from Jonny’s cock and curving up. Patrick’s mouth drops open, body jerking, not sure whether to move away from that feeling or into it. His head tips back, hair pulling against Jonny’s grip.

Jonny chuckles against Patrick’s throat. “I’d make you come twice like this if I could.”

“It’d be worth it,” Patrick says, choked. Jonny circles his clit with his thumb. “You’re so good at that, fuck, how are you—” He drags Jonny’s head back up, kissing him desperately, knees clenching around Jonny’s sides and breasts pressing against his chest as he circles his fingers. He feels stretched taut, on the edge. Jonny curls his hand, pushing up again as Patrick grinds down, and Patrick comes explosively. 

He’s fighting to catch his breath, still holding onto Jonny, when he opens his eyes. He turns his head weakly, meeting his own dazed eyes in the medicine cabinet mirror. His body is wrapped around Jonny’s, arms banded tight around Jonny’s back. He’s returned to his real shape, shoulders broad, arms thickly muscled. His lightly-stubbled cheek is pressed against Jonny’s. Patrick’s stomach drops, post-orgasm haze jolted by this return to reality. He looks away, letting go of Jonny and dropping his legs. Jonny’s hand is still tangled in his hair. Jonny eases free, looking at Patrick for a long, awkward moment where Patrick finds himself wondering if Jonny’s—what? going to kiss him?

Jonny takes a step back, turning toward the shower and turning it back on. 

“Be out in five,” he says. The shower curtain rattles as he draws it behind him. Patrick slides back to his feet as the bathroom fills slowly with steam. 

He’s still trying to scrub his brain of those two images, his fake female body and then his real male one wrapped around Jonny, as he walks out.

**4\. WAIT, REALLY? AGAIN? NEW SOLUTION!**

The next time Patrick turns into a girl he decides he'll take care of it himself. He’s at home for once. He's been down this road three times now, surely he's learned something. How to handle his own fucking clit. He tries it lying down in bed this time. He played twenty minutes tonight, he's too tired to stand around in the shower fiddling with a shower head. This body isn't that tricky, he decides with relief, as he moves into his stroking fingers.

But right before he comes, he thinks of Jonny blanketing him with his body. The orgasm is unsatisfying, because it's just a stupid fantasy. He's annoyed at himself for even thinking about it. Which is why it takes him a moment to realize he's still a girl.

His pulse picks up, hands flying to cup his breasts and then his crotch.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," he squeaks, dropping his arms flat to the mattress. He takes a deep breath, covering his face with his hands, fingertips pressing in hard enough that his blunt nails raise pinpricks of pain on his forehead and cheeks.

His phone is sitting on the nightstand, charging. He takes two tries to grab it, hands fumbling and catching on the cord, and drops it with a clatter onto the wooden tabletop.

Jonny's grumpy when he answers the phone, saying tersely, "What?"

"Hey, Jonny," Patrick says.

"You gotta be kidding me," Jonny says.

"It didn't work," Patrick says. "I swear, hand to god. I should have turned back, but I didn't. Joke of the universe, right?"

"It's almost midnight," Jonny complains, and hearing him grouse about the whole thing actually makes Patrick's pulse slow back down, stomach unclenching. It's like he's calling for a pickup from a bar or something. He's just asking Jonny to give him a helping hand.

"You want me to call you a cab?" Patrick asks.

"Funny guy," Jonny says. "Whatever, I'll be there in a bit."

Jonny ends up crashing in his guest room that night, which happens a few times a season anyway. But hey, it was hot, and who turns down getting laid by a hot chick? Even if that hot chick is currently Patrick. If Jonny made a hot girl and needed him for this kind of dealio, he’d probably be on it in a heart beat. 

It doesn’t stop though. The flipflopping, if anything it speeds up. Every time Patrick's a girl it’s become routine for him to seek Jonny out. It's kind of annoying. Especially when it happens only an hour before a game and Jonny literally has to bring him off in a supply closet at Joe Louis arena. And then it starts happening multiple times in a day. He’s sure Jonny has never gotten laid this much in his life. Hell, Patrick hasn’t gotten laid this much in his life. And yet, he’s never been so angry about sex in his entire life either. The last time it happened, he stormed into Jonny’s room, ripped his shirt off because stupid Jonny likes his breasts, pried Jonny’s pants open, and sat on it all before Jonny could get a word in edgewise. 

It had felt great. Taking dick deep. And yet all Patrick could think about while he was chasing his orgasm was how he didn’t have time for this shit. 

“Are you like, not jerking it enough?” Shawsy asks him at team dinner after he’s transformed twice. 

Jonny chokes on his ice water, practically spitting it out onto the table. 

It’s true that as far as Shawsy knows Patrick’s had to get himself off every single time this happens. But Patrick’s pretty sure that jerking it is not his problem. 

“You need to see somebody,” Jonny tells him, fucking Patrick over the kitchen counter a few days later. “Figure this shit out, because I cannot spend the rest of my life as your personal orgasm bitch.” 

He’d transformed in the middle of brunch with his sisters who were in town visiting, which didn’t happen so often these days. Feeling like an asshole the whole time, he found himself ditching them to head over to Jonny’s place to fuck himself back to an XY chromosome. It’s gotten pretty out of control. He knows that. He’s not actually certain why he’s resisted getting help. But lying there trying to get his breathing under control after Jonny brings him off with his mouth he resolves to talk to a spiritual adviser. He's been trying not to panic, but it's been two months. This is starting to seem like a permanent life change. He doesn't want to spend 7 years in this madness. 

The spiritual adviser tells him to try sleeping with somebody else. Which. Okay, maybe Patrick could’ve thought of that on his own. Out at a club, suddenly transformed into a girl on a Friday night in Chicago, looking for somebody to bang, he really could’ve done that sooner. 

The first guy he tries just cannot make Patrick come. After a lot of arranging and rearranging, Patrick finally pushes him away and says, “Nope, not happening.” But then the second and the third go the same way, and Patrick doesn’t have all night here. He needs to get this done and he can’t transform if he can’t even get there. He winds up calling Jonny and all he does is sink two fingers into Patrick and circle his clit with his thumb and Patrick goes off like a rocket. 

“I’m trying ladies next, men clearly cannot handle a clit.” 

Jonny raises his brows. It’s 8 AM, he’d woken Jonny up after being out all night trying to get some action, his cheek is still creased from his pillow and his hair is sticking up in all different directions. Patrick’s got a key now for these kinds of house calls, so Jonny hadn’t even had to get out of bed. 

Jonny whacks him with a pillow all of a sudden. “Figure it out, Kaner,” he growls and then drops back to the bed, pulling that same pillow over his head. Patrick’s pretty tired. He’ll just close his eyes for a minute and then he’ll head home for a nap. He ends up passing out completely, waking up with a start at 10:30 because the light from the windows shines down right into his face. It’s just as well though, because he’s back to being a girl again. Jonny fucks him from behind, spooned up against his back, all soft hands and softer kisses against the back of Patrick’s neck and shoulder. It’s sleepy and slow and when Patrick comes he just...feels good everywhere. He doesn’t know what the fuck was up with those other dudes. 

When he turns into a girl again a few days later, he finds himself a really hot coed from U of I this time. When he explains that he’s been TTS’d she gives him a long, hard look and then says, “That’s pretty hot.” 

It happens for him this time. Patrick’s pretty into it. She gets him off alternating between fucking him with her fingers and her tongue. And he still doesn’t turn back. Which. What. The. Fuck. He lies there, hyperventilating in her bed. 

“Has this happened before?” she asks. “TTS?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “It happens a lot.” 

“How did you turn back?” she asks calmly, running her hands up and down his arms. 

“It’s always been with this one guy. With him, it’s not a problem.” He throws his arm up over his eyes. “But I can’t keep relying on him, you know?” 

“That’s what people do in relationships,” she says. 

Patrick laughs. “I don’t do relationships and he’s...well. He’s straight.” 

Her face takes on a curious cast. He’s not sure he likes that expression. She looks at him for a long time, like she’s puzzling something out. Finally she says slowly, “Maybe...you should try having sex with him as a guy.” 

Patrick snorts. “That’d make this way too real.”

He gets out of there with none of his dignity intact. He’d offered to go down on her to return the favor, but she’d kicked him out as nicely as possible, obviously done with him and his problems. Patrick can’t blame her. He’s pretty done too. 

Jonny’s not home when Patrick gets to his apartment. Patrick only remembers after he’s unlocked the door and found all the rooms darkened that Jonny had evening plans, dinner and then a concert for a band Patrick hates. He takes a shower and crashes in the guest room, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the past few hours. He wakes up when Jonny gets in, the slam of the door breaking through his uneasy sleep. He gets out of bed and wanders toward the living room, leaning on the doorjamb. Jonny’s singing tunelessly to himself from the kitchen. He stops halfway across the room when he sees Patrick.

“Oh, hey,” Jonny says. The water bottle he grabbed from the fridge is hanging from his hand. 

“Hey, Jonny,” Patrick says. 

Jonny sets the water bottle down on the coffee table and walks closer. Patrick uncrosses his arms when he gets near. Jonny reels him in with a hand on the small of his back, bending his head. Patrick tilts his head back, remembering the girl he’d kissed earlier this evening. She’d been only a little taller than him, and their breasts had pressed together as they made out. He’d thought it was hot. He puts his arm around Jonny’s neck, the muscle taut and sinewy under his hand. 

“So it didn’t work, eh?” Jonny murmurs.

“No,” Patrick says. He presses on Jonny’s neck, and Jonny brushes their lips together. “Didn’t work.”

It takes him a week to even consider trying what she suggested and another week after that to work up the courage to ask. When he does, he’s fully expecting a ‘no’ and has worked out a very impressive counter-offensive to just such an eventuality. It shouldn’t be that weird. Jonny’s fucked him a million times as a girl now. 

Jonny blows all that to hell when he narrows his eyes at Patrick and then breathes out. “Yeah, okay then.” 

“Wait, what?” Patrick blinks. 

“Yes,” Jonny repeats, rolling his eyes. 

Jonny says he’ll swing by Patrick’s place at 8. He’s not sure why in the hours leading up to it he’s so intensely nervous, but he is. He showers beforehand, which he certainly never does for Jonny when he's a girl, unless being in the shower beforehand counts. He's drying off in the bathroom when he reaches back and traces his finger over his crack, pressing the pad of his fingertip to his hole. It would be easier if Patrick took care of the details, right?

He's tight around his own fingers when he starts working them in. He hasn't been fucked as a guy in a while, and the nerves jittering in his stomach don't help. He hasn't even jerked off since the TTS bullshit started. He gives his dick a squeeze just to say hi. "Don't worry, we'll be back to normal in no time," he mutters.

It's a relief just to touch himself as a guy. He's missed this. Even in all the stress of worrying about changing back so he could do his job, the constant undercurrent of unfamiliarity got to him, he's realizing. No surprises here, he thinks as he spreads his legs to give himself more access. In some ways it's a shame he's only going to get one shot at this. Jonny's good with his hands. If Patrick didn't have to worry about him freaking out, he could see if Jonny could take him apart like this as easy as he does when he's a girl. He shivers, sliding his fingers in and out, imagining Jonny pressing him open. His fingertip glides over his prostate, and he undulates into that sensation, loving the way it lights him up. He's hardening up against his thigh, revving himself up too much, probably. He pulls his fingers out, then dips them inside and fucks himself with the tips, spread just enough that he feels it.

He's gotta stop. He's starting to sweat, skin prickling and sensitive.

He walks naked to the bathroom to wash his hands, then dresses in loose sweats and a t-shirt. The lube is slippery as he moves, which isn't the weirdest thing he's ever felt, but usually he's relaxed from an orgasm, not free-balling it and trying to ignore his own erection. This is the most preparation he's put into any sex, ever. He spent all the hours of US History class imagining sliding his hands under Melissa Brown's skirt when he was sixteen, and daydreamed about sucking Ryan Taylor's dick when he was seventeen. He definitely wasn't as nervous doing either of those things as he is now. But Melissa and Ryan had both been crazy into him, so. Different situation.

When Jonny shows up, it’s the most awkward walk back to his bedroom he’s ever experienced. He’s considering opening a bottle of whiskey and going to town. Jonny grabs his elbow after they pass through his bedroom door. 

"Hey," he says. "You good?" Like Patrick's the rookie here.

Patrick nudges him in the ribs. "Of course." He turns away and strips off his t-shirt. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jonny remove his jacket as Patrick takes off his pants and moves to the bed.

"I'm good to go," Patrick explains, stretching himself out on top of the covers, pillowing his head on his crossed arms. If Jonny wants him on his hands and knees, he can fucking well ask for it.

"What?" Jonny replies dumbly.

Patrick rolls his eyes. "I took care of the prep."

Jonny is strangely silent, and when Patrick lifts his head to look at him, there’s a weird expression on his face. "So we could get this over with?" Patrick offers.

When Jonny still doesn’t respond, Patrick goes up on one elbow so he can look over his shoulder. "Just figured I'd make it easier."

"Christ, Kaner," Jonny says, aggrieved, circling the bed. The mattress shifts as he climbs onto the other side, and Patrick turns to look at him. 

"What?" Patrick asks, baffled.

"You're such a dumbass. No room in your head for anything but hockey, eh?" Jonny's hand presses on the small of his back, then slides down and his fingers circle Patrick's entrance before he sinks one inside. 

Patrick breathes out. "Funny thing for you to say," he says and widens his legs slightly. He rests his cheek on his arms again, head turned toward Jonny.

Jonny moves onto his side, then presses two fingers into him, working his fingers slowly inside.

"Come on," Patrick says, voice stuttering as Jonny's knuckles drag across his rim. "I told you—"

Jonny thrusts in, deep, and Patrick's mouth drops open. He drags a leg up the bed unconsciously trying to get more leverage, inadvertently opening himself up to Jonny’s gaze. He’s not sure why this position feels any more vulnerable than all the other times he’s fucked Jonny. 

“It’s uh...towards the belly not the back,” Patrick says, meaning his prostate. 

“I know where _it_ is,” Jonny huffs, leaning in close, crooking his fingers just so. Okay. Damn. Yes. He definitely knows where it is. Jonny pushes his fingers in and out, thumbing Patrick’s still-slickened rim as he does. Patrick shudders, one of his hands coming down to clench in the sheets by his hip. He’s shifting on the bed in time with Jonny’s fingers, dick hardening rapidly. He was turned on before Jonny even got here. Maybe that’s why he feels like he’s racing ahead. Jonny’s t-shirt brushes his bare back with every movement of Jonny’s arm, that faded cotton shirt he’s seen a million times. It’s Jonny’s favorite shirt. Patrick turns his face away, into the crook of his elbow as Jonny drags over his prostate again. Jonny’s hard through the denim of his jeans, pressed against Patrick’s thigh.

“Hey, get your dick out, I’m good,” Patrick says, and then pants into his arm as Jonny pulls out and circles his hole again before thrusting in. He lifts his head. “I mean it. I’m really, I’m really good here.” He’s pushing back into Jonny’s hand and rubbing his dick against the sheets.

Jonny shifts closer. He must have shaved right before he came over, because Patrick can smell the soap fresh on his skin. He says, “I think I’ll stay with this for a while.”

“I’m just saying, there’s, uh,” Patrick shudders as Jonny curves his fingertips over his prostate again, “a limited window.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Jonny says. He’s making Patrick feel like he’s sixteen again, turned on by everything and humping the bed.

Patrick mouths his own arm, a groan caught in his throat and shaking through his chest as Jonny moves to three fingers. He can feel the stretch even with his own preparation, nerves shivering up his spine. When Jonny goes smoothly back to two and crooks his fingers, he clenches and bucks up into his hand. Jonny slings his leg over Patrick’s to keep him in place, jeans scratching at his skin, and keeps fucking him with his fingers. 

“Oh shit,” Patrick says desperately, bracing his forehead on his clenched fist as he arches his back to try and follow Jonny’s hand. He drags his dick against the mattress as Jonny thrusts in again, pleasure rushing through him. He comes without warning, body strung tight, hands twisted in the sheets, as he shakes through it. 

He's left gasping for breath as Jonny slides his fingers free, wrenching one more aftershock of over-stretched sensation out of him. He wipes his eyes against his forearm and lies there for a long moment before he feels Jonny sit up and then get off the bed. Patrick opens his eyes and turns his head, following Jonny's walk across the room. He disappears into the bathroom and the faucet turns on a second later.

Patrick rolls onto his back, stretching out before he reaches for a handful of tissues. He slides back into his sweat pants, moving gingerly as he pulls them up over his hips. He’s just reaching down for his shirt when Jonny comes out of the bathroom. 

He still looks worked up, color high, dick hard. He’s acting like he’s at a charity hospital visit though, completely ignoring his hardon and brusque like he’s got better things to be doing. 

“You want me to—” Patrick says, gesturing between them. He’s not sure what he’s offering, exactly. Handjob or blowjob or something. Whatever Jonny wants. It seems fair. 

Jonny just shakes his head. He’s not avoiding Patrick’s eyes, but he says, “Nah, I think I’m gonna take off.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” Patrick says. 

“We’ll see if it worked, eh?” Jonny says. 

Patrick follows him to the door. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Jonny glances at him as he opens the door, a long look Patrick can’t interpret that slides from his face, down his chest, along the length of his body. It makes Patrick uncomfortably aware of all the ways Jonny’s seen him. He crosses his arms over his chest and nods, taking a step back. 

“Guess I’ll see you later,” Patrick says. Then, before he can stop himself, “You see any of this coming?”

Jonny frowns. He pulls the door the rest of the way open and makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, almost like he’s throwing something away. “Later, Kaner.”

Patrick stays by the door for a minute after he closes it. His body buzzes, winding down from the orgasm Jonny had pulled out of him with as much ease as when he had breasts and a pussy, but his mind is whirling. None of this evening went how Patrick expected. 

As he goes through the motions of the rest of his night, showering and getting ready for bed, disappointment dogs his heels. If that’s the last sex he’s going to have with Jonny, he’s not sure. Kind of feels like a waste.

 **5\. Well, shit. I think I kinda love you.**

Jonny's not the only person on the team with the art. Shawsy builds up a static charge when he's angry and Seabs can briefly wake the dead. But Jonny is the most sensitive about it. It makes sense. Of the three of them, his is the only one that’s marked on his driver's license and carries legal implications. Jonny's sight, while imprecise and uncontrollable, does still make him nearly impossible to sneak up on. Sharpy and Burr acted like it was their god given mission to prank him their rookie year. They referred to it in terms of DOD or degree of difficulty. Jonny had an astronomical DOD and thus was a high-value target, whereas Patrick made a far less satisfying victim. It didn't help matters that Jonny reacted very poorly the few times they were successful. But he's mellowed over the years, both to the pranks and the incessant requests for predictions about the future.

Which is why Patrick is so surprised when Jonny explodes at Shawsy for pulling the dumb Gatorade trick, both because he should've seen it coming a mile away, but also because shit like this is not a big deal. He hasn't gotten pissed at something like this in a very long time.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he shouts at Shawsy. A plume of red powder is splashed down the front of his shirt and hazes over his neck and face.

“Oh no, someone didn’t see it ahead of time!” Shawsy crows, raising his arms in victory.

Jonny’s face turns red, a picture of fury. It’s a little funny and Patrick’s starting to smile about it when Jonny throws his helmet right at Shawsy, who rears back, deflecting it to the ground.

“Whoa,” Patrick mutters involuntarily. The rest of the guys who had been laughing look back and forth between Jonny and Shawsy, or focusing on their own gear. 

“I’m tired of this shit,” Jonny says, swabbing viciously at his face with a towel. “It’s not fucking funny.”

“It was just a practical joke, man,” Shawsy says, but he raises his hands and backs away, muttering an apology. 

Sharpy, never one to let an awkward moment pass without commentary, says, “It’s weird, though. Shawsy got one over on Captain Magic 8 Ball? My daughter pulls better pranks and she needs someone to tie her shoelaces.” He tosses a roll of tape in the air and catches it, eyeing Jonny speculatively.

The boys are off and running after that, throwing out increasingly outlandish suggestions for what could be distracting Jonny’s art while Jonny sputters and turns redder.

“Hot blonde,” Seabs proclaims. “We know what he likes.”

Jonny stands up and turns his back on the room, stripping off his stained shirt and replacing it. Everyone has started to discuss where Jonny might have met this fictional woman when Jonny turns around, lips pressed tight together. His gaze sweeps the benches. It lands on Patrick, before moving over the guys next to him like Patrick isn’t there, and then he strides from the room without another word.

So that was weird. In general, Patrick feels a little unsettled. Maybe that’s to be expected. He still reflexively checks himself at random moments, hands patting down his torso to make sure he hasn’t switched again without noticing. But each time, he’s fine. His permanent solution worked. He just can’t seem to tidily box away his memories of those months. They’re about to play the Blues and right in the middle of one of Q’s pre-game talks in the room, Patrick zones out on the mundanity of Jonny’s dextrous hands taping a stick, watching the shift of muscles and tendons in his forearms as he works. His brain replays in vivid color all the times he clung to every part of Jonny he could reach as Jonny brought him off with his talented fingers.

When Patrick snaps back to reality, the whiteboard looks totally different than he remembers. He’s missed Q’s last five sentences. 

He can’t get his head together. It happens over and over again over the next few days. He feels more preoccupied with the fact that he and Jonny had sex now than he was when they were doing it multiple times a day. He almost drops a weight on his foot when he hears Jonny blow out an explosive breath as he lifts—that grunt of effort he remembers from Jonny hoisting him up to fuck him harder on the bathroom counter. 

He's spent a lot of time not wanting Jonathan Toews, but it's becoming really hard to pretend that he doesn't want Jonny to come over and spoon up behind him. That he doesn't want to fuck him, but filled out as a man. That when he closes his eyes he doesn't imagine Jonny's lips skimming over his vulnerable bare skin.

Patrick hasn't used Jonny's spare key since he turned back. They haven't really hung out since he stopped switching for good. He keeps running into it on his key ring when he goes to unlock his own door. He should give it back, what does he need it for? He’s got nobody else’s keys. But he doesn’t. He forgets the first couple days. Then it starts to seem like the start of an awkward conversation he doesn’t want, and then. Well. Anyway. He doesn’t. 

It’s a surprise when Jonny knocks on his door instead on one of their off-days. He didn’t even call first.

“Hey, something wrong?” Patrick asks, letting him in. “How’d you know I’d be around? I could have been out.”

Jonny looks at Patrick and raises his eyebrows.

“Wait, you saw this?” Patrick says. “But not Shawsy with the stupid Gatorade trick?”

“It’s not like I get to pick and choose,” Jonny reminds him. He glances around, and Patrick follows his gaze, eyes skimming over the couch where Jonny had fucked him the last time he was here, bent over the armrest with his palm pressed to the small of Patrick’s back. 

The memory makes Patrick feel awkwardly turned-on, uneasy and too-warm.

Jonny says, “I’ve been seeing a lot of you, though. Six years and I only ever saw you in hockey dreams on the ice.” He waves impatiently at his head. “Now I’m seeing you everywhere.”

Patrick’s got no idea what that means. He’s always assumed Jonny was lying when he said he never saw Patrick through his art. Early in their rookie year Sharpy and Bur had trashed his gameday suit in the middle of a road trip and replaced it with this horrible 80s bright blue tux monstrosity, and Jonny had nearly busted a gut laughing through Patrick’s accusations that Jonny had seen it coming and hadn’t seen fit to warn him. “From a mile away,” Jonny said. Later, when he claimed he was only joking, Patrick hadn’t believed him. A few months later, Jonny had stopped him from reaching for his helmet, saying, “Ah ah ah,” as he wagged a patronizing finger, before lifting the helmet to reveal the half-cut cup of water that would have rained down on Patrick’s head. But maybe they all counted as hockey dreams.

He clears his throat. “When did that start?”

Jonny’s lips, pressed tight together, quirk. "After the first time I touched you. When you were—" He nods his head.

The first time Jonny brought him off as a girl. Patrick blinks. What does that mean? His understanding of an art like Jonny’s is hazy at best, but is he saying they somehow changed the future because they fucked?

“I’ve had kind of a recurring one, lately,” Jonny says, going on like he doesn’t notice Patrick’s inner turmoil. “Sometimes it can be hard to tell whether it means anything real, but I thought.” He shrugs, hand going to the back of his neck. “I thought I’d check.”

“Recurring?” Patrick asks faintly, mind racing.

“Yeah.” Jonny says. “You’ve been missing your necklace for a while, right?”

Patrick’s hand goes to his collarbone before he drops it back to his side. 

Jonny closes his eyes. “The one your grandpa gave you. Silver chain, little circular pendant on it.” He opens them and glances at Patrick. “You hardly ever wear it, but you did a couple months ago. You’ve been looking for it.”

Patrick licks his lips and nods. His heart is in his throat, waiting for Jonny to get to the point. 

“I dreamed that I found it for you,” Jonny says. He scans the room again, and looks at Patrick. After a moment, he crosses to the mostly-empty bookshelf adjacent to Patrick’s stereo system. He lifts a sheaf of papers Patrick doesn’t even remember putting there and slides his fingers along the shelf. When he turns around, he’s holding a necklace in his hand, face full of wonder, like he didn’t actually expect it to be there. Patrick doesn’t understand that—how he could be unsure. He’s never seen Jonny be wrong. He’s certainly never stopped Patrick from crossing the street claiming there’s a car about to blow the red light...only to have nothing happen. 

“I brought it back,” he says, voice soft, watching Patrick’s face carefully. He walks over to Patrick and takes his hand to let the silver chain drop into Patrick’s open palm. 

Patrick's chest is tight just from Jonny's hand curled around his own. He has to clear his throat again before he says, "Why are you telling me about all this?" His fingers close around the necklace hard enough for the metal to bite into his skin.

“I can’t always tell what’s real and what’s not,” he replies, vision turned inward like he’s cycling through it right now. “But if the necklace was where I saw it was, then everything else…”

“What’d you see, Jonny?” Patrick asks, ignoring the catch in his own voice. 

Color rises up on Jonny’s cheeks, but he smiles that self-assured smirk. Patrick’s already responding to it, leaning up into him. When Jonny’s mouth slides over his, something inside lets go, like his head finally cleared the water and he can breathe again. He never thought Jonny would want this—could want this even, but here he is, hands coming up to frame Patrick’s face, kissing him like he’s starving for it. Like he missed it as much as Patrick did. 

They fall back onto the couch, Patrick’s nerveless fingers letting go of the necklace in the tumble, trying to pull Jonny closer, hold him tighter, prove to himself that this is real. 

“You saw this?” Patrick says breathlessly, turning his head as Jonny kisses his jaw.

“All the goddamn time,” Jonny mutters, chasing his way back to Patrick’s mouth. His hands shift to cradle Patrick’s head, fingers buried in his hair. “Every night, starting with the same thing. Drove me fucking crazy.” He draws Patrick into another kiss, soft like he sometimes used to kiss when Patrick was a girl. Patrick had thought that was just how Jonny was with women, but maybe not. When he turns his head and brushes his lips across Patrick’s cheek, it takes Patrick a second to register his low voice. “It would start like this, but I’d see us together a million different ways. And sometimes you were a girl, but after I fucked you, a lot of times you weren’t. Didn’t know what to think.” He drops one hand to loop his arm around Patrick’s waist, drawing him closer. 

Patrick hisses, friction on his dick from his jeans. He can feel Jonny hard underneath him. “Me. Me neither,” he says. He still doesn’t. “Man, you don’t—I thought you didn’t do guys…” 

He shifts against Jonny, thigh pressing down on his dick and Jonny lifts his chin, biting into his lower lip. “I always thought,” he breathes, “if I was gonna fuck a guy it would be you.” 

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, knowing that far too much of what he feels must be visible on his face. 

Jonny nods. His cheeks go even pinker—from being turned on, Patrick’s fucked him enough times to know. He drops his hands to Patrick’s ass and drags their hips tight together. “But then when we were gonna, you just wanted to get it over with,” he says, palming Patrick’s ass. 

“I wanted it a lot,” Patrick admits. “I thought you wouldn’t. Not the hot blonde you’re used to.”

“Jesus H, Patrick, you made a hot girl, but I woulda gotten it up for you regardless,” Jonny says with offended disbelief. 

Patrick can’t help it. He’s had too many emotions stirring in his chest, trepidation and hope and relief all swirled together. A bubble of laughter rises in his throat and he cracks up, collapsing down onto Jonny's chest. When he raises his head, Jonny’s still looking at him with a mixture of fondness and aggravation. “Fuck,” Patrick says, lips still twitching. “Joke of the fucking universe. I want a do-over. Can we try that again?”

“Oh, I just thought I’d come over and we’d hold hands,” Jonny teases. 

“Think you can multitask?” Patrick asks.

Jonny smiles. He runs his hands down Patrick's arms. "You gonna let me up? Or are you gonna ride me right here on the couch?"

Patrick takes a breath as that thought rolls through him, then sits up and takes Jonny's hands to pull him up as he stands. "Maybe not this time," he says. Jonny stumbles, off-balance as he gets to his feet. Patrick pulls their joined hands behind his back. He has to tip his head back to meet Jonny's eyes, but he’s back on familiar ground now, in his own body. He can muscle in close, push his hips up against Jonny’s as he takes his weight, grinning up at him, let himself flirt a little.

Jonny’s arms tighten around him, and he mutters, “Ah, there’s that look, I know that one, doesn’t matter what body you’re in. Get me into trouble with that one,” before he dips his head down to kiss Patrick again. Jonny’s not the only one feeling unsteady by the time Patrick breaks away to catch his breath. He takes a step back, tugging Jonny along with him. 

In Patrick’s bedroom, Jonny gets his hands underneath the hem of Patrick’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He tosses it aside and goes for Patrick’s waistband, but Patrick ducks away, reaching for Jonny’s shirt instead. 

“You too, come on,” Patrick says. He remembers Jonny, fully-dressed last time, just walking out the door afterward. 

Jonny pauses, mouth quirking, before he takes off his shirt and drops it on the floor. The air is cool enough in Patrick’s apartment that his nipples pebble up—Patrick wants to put his mouth on them. He skins out of his jeans, then drops to the bed and watches hungrily as Jonny unbuckles his belt, fingers looped in the leather, buckle clinking. When he looks up and sees Patrick watching him his hands fumble taking his pants off. Patrick knows what Jonny looks like when he's turned on, but he'd never realized until he sees the look on his face how much Jonny likes being watched. Jonny walks to stand between Patrick’s spread legs, arms draping over his shoulders as Patrick takes hold of his hips. He tugs Jonny forward one more step, so he can press his mouth to Jonny’s chest and suck a wet kiss to Jonny’s nipple that makes Jonny move restlessly in his arms before Patrick switches to the other one. He looks up, tongue swiping his lower lip, and Jonny’s staring down at him, eyes dark and intent.

He runs a hand through Patrick’s hair, tangling with the curls at his nape. “Where’s your lube?” he asks. 

They make a mess, because they keep getting distracted by kissing and Patrick accidentally rolls across the tube as he’s pulling Jonny down on top of him. 

“Fuck,” he curses, sliding his hand underneath his back. It comes away dripping in the slippery substance. Jonny laughs and covers his face. 

“Oh, you laugh,” Patrick says and then drags his palm down Jonny’s shoulder, leaving a shimmering oily streak down his arm.

“Ugh, asshole,” Jonny says, picking up the bottle and squirting some out onto Patrick’s chest in retaliation. It comes out cold and Patrick swears as Jonny drags it down over his belly. It devolves into clumsy wrestling, Patrick struggling against Jonny’s superior weight and reach. They trash the sheets streaking each other up with lube, limbs sliding together slick and slippery. Patrick manages to swipe some off on Jonny’s face and twist underneath him, trying to get out from under him, but then the fucker starts pouring it into his hair so that it slides in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. 

“Fuck, that’s gross,” Patrick says, trying to buck him off. 

“You started this,” Jonny replies, triumphant, laying a smack down on the cap of Patrick’s shoulder. 

Patrick pushes back against him with renewed vigor, determined not to let Jonny have the last word, when they line up together just right. The head of Jonny’s dick sinks easily into him. Patrick can’t help the caught noise of surprise at the surprise breach of his body and Jonny freezes above him. 

“Sorry, lemme just—” Jonny says, clearly about to pull out and Patrick can’t have that. Screw prep. Patrick wants Jonny’s dick in him. He arches up against him. 

“No, come on, I want you to,” Patrick tells him, breathless. He pushes back and Jonny sinks another inch inside him, making him groan and Jonny seemingly stops breathing. “Jonny,” Patrick cajoles and finally, finally Jonny gets with the program, pushing inside until his hips meet Patrick’s ass and he can go no further. It feels so good Patrick can barely think beyond the obscene wet squelches their every move makes, painted with lube as they are. He’s had Jonny’s dick inside him more times than he can count, sometimes multiple times in a single day, but this is the first time it feels real. 

Jonny’s hands keep slipping over his skin as he thrusts inside and after a moment he huffs out a frustrated breath. “Fuck—I can’t—no leverage.” 

Jonny lifts up all of a sudden, pulling out, and Patrick turns to look over his shoulder at him. “What are you—” is all he gets out before Jonny hauls him up onto his knees and then crowds back in close. 

“C’mon, Peeks,” he breathes, pulling Patrick back onto his lap, “like this.”

Patrick moans as Jonny guides his dick back into Patrick’s body. His hand flies out, skids on Jonny’s thigh and grasps at the solid muscle. Jonny thrusts up, body moving powerfully against Patrick’s. “Fuck, you’re crazy,” Patrick gasps out. He’s barely tried this with girls, much less a guy his size, but goddamn Jonny, making it work. He whines, hand closing bruisingly-hard on Jonny’s forearm, when Jonny pauses. “What are— _why_?” Patrick demands, shoving down, trying to get Jonny to start moving again.

“Is this good?” Jonny says.

“Yes, great, god, it’s perfect, _move_ ,” Patrick says, thighs shaking. Jonny presses his lips to the side of Patrick’s throat, sweet again. Patrick’s breath catches in his chest at that gesture. He’s taken unaware when Jonny does start moving again, feels every inch of friction as Jonny’s cock pushes up into him. He closes his eyes, head dropping back to Jonny’s shoulder, and when he opens them again, he can’t stop staring, dazed, at the wide stretch of his thighs over Jonny’s lap, the obscene smudging of lube all across his torso, his hard dick shining at the swollen, pink tip and down the shaft, pubic hair dark where excess lube had dribbled off on it. His adductors go tense, muscles locked as he keeps himself lifted just enough to let Jonny push up into him, his big hands on Patrick’s thighs, supporting him. 

It looks like something out of a porno, and it’s stupid, but the sight turns him on more than he’d have believed. What would they look like in a mirror now? He can’t stop clenching down on Jonny’s dick, drawing groans out of Jonny that shake through his chest. Jonny swears in his ear, voice taut and desperate. He lets go of Patrick’s leg, leaving white imprints behind on his thigh that quickly turn pink, and wraps his fingers around Patrick’s dick. The sight of that strong, capable hand on him takes Patrick apart. He chokes, spine bending back. Noises he’s never heard himself make spill from his throat as he shakes and comes up his stomach and chest, striping white on his skin and Jonny’s hand.

Jonny’s hand on him slows, grip slackening, and just as Patrick is beginning to wonder how he’s going to hold himself up, Jonny tips him forward onto the mattress with a palm at the center of his back, leaving it there as he rolls his hips. Jonny’s pace is measured still, even if the short, sharp breaths out of his mouth aren’t. Patrick turns his cheek against the sheets and closes his eyes, letting himself just feel it as Jonny fucks him through it. Jonny’s the most considerate partner he’s ever slept with, but Patrick wants him to feel just as good. 

“Go for it,” Patrick says, tensing up deliberately around Jonny’s dick. “C’mon, fuck me like you wanna.” 

Jonny hisses and snaps his hips forward, testing. 

“Yup,” Patrick tells him, eyelids fluttering dreamily. “Just like that.” 

Jonny presses down harder on his back and Patrick tilts his ass up into each forceful shove. He’s pounding into Patrick for real now. Patrick doesn’t mind being fucked after he’s come, but there’s something deeply satisfying about the way Jonny’s using him to chase his own orgasm. Satisfying in a way that no other time has been. Jonny curves down over him, forehead dropping between Patrick’s shoulderblades. 

“God, you look so fucking good,” he says, voice ragged. With that he strokes in hard one last time, lingering, and comes inside Patrick, mouth open against his skin. Patrick feels the jitter of Jonny’s overworked quads against the back of his thighs and smiles against his own arm. It takes a long time for both their heartbeats to return to normal. 

Afterwards, in the shower, as Patrick’s shampooing lube out of his hair and Jonny’s soaping down, he suddenly has a thought. “Hey, was that like how you saw it?” 

Jonny snorts. “No. I didn’t see it happening like this.” 

Patrick’s obscurely glad and he tugs Jonny forward to brush their mouths together. “Well,” he says quietly, “it was a surprise to me.” 

*

Smitty switches on the road two months later. They find out when he comes down to team breakfast a little late, busting out of the top of his suit. If Patrick had nice breasts as a girl, Smitty’s got a serious rack. He’s impressed. 

“Um, I am—uh—I’m not sure what to do,” Smitty says as he gingerly sits down, all of them staring at him. 

“Did you try jerking it?” Shawsy asks, waving a hand at him. He leans forward to meet Patrick’s eyes. “That’s what Kaner did, right? He jerked it enough times and then it stopped.” 

Patrick has been embarrassed on very rare occasions in his life. Now, with the entire team staring at him, he feels his face flaming up. “Well, uh...” he stumbles, eyes sliding to Jonny without meaning to. He very deliberately stuffs his mouth full of scrambled egg and hopes nobody noticed. 

Jonny raises the arts section of the paper higher in front of his face. 

Seabs sits across from them and Patrick watches with resigned horror as his eyes go round, brows crawling up his forehead. “No,” he says, “no, you fucking didn’t!” 

The back of Jonny’s neck goes scarlet and his hands tighten on the newsprint as he stares fixedly at it. 

“What?” Duncs asks, looking back and forth between the three of them. 

Seabs shakes his head. “You two fools amaze me,” he says dryly. 

“It was the only thing that would turn me back! I happen to like my dick!” Patrick protests. “I uh—tried some other options?” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Shawsy says, looking bowled over, “slow your roll. Are you saying—are you saying you fucked Tazer?” 

“Only thing that would turn me back, bro,” Patrick reiterates. 

“And _how_ did you figure that out?” Sharpy asks, eyes narrowed. 

Jonny cracks up behind his paper, clearly thinking about Patrick’s struggles with the showerhead. 

“Fuck off, man,” Patrick says, elbowing him in the gut. 

Jonny’s snickers turn into full blown laughs, paper crumpled up against his face. He laughs so hard Patrick thinks he’s gonna bust something. Shaking, he finally gives up on hiding behind the news and folds the paper and tosses it down to the table. He has to wipe at his eyes, he laughed so hard. Everybody around the table stares at him. 

Jonny clears his throat. “That’s irrelevant,” he says, answering Sharpy’s question with his voice still thick. He looks ready to start laughing again, biting his lip down on a smile. Sharpy and Seabs trade glances and then Sharpy shoots Patrick an evil look. Fuck Jonny. Sharpy’s gonna spend the next decade trying to pry the story out of Patrick. 

“So uh...what do we do for Smitty?” Saader asks, blessedly changing the subject. He’s staring straight at the buttons on Smitty’s chest. They strain whenever he takes a breath. 

Jonny shakes his head. "Well, I'm not fucking Smitty.” He pitches his voice down the table. “Sorry, man."

“That’s alright,” Smitty says faintly. The rest of the table erupts, arguing over how they’re going to help him. 

Seabs is still staring at them knowingly. “Fucking christ, you two are still fucking,” he says after a long moment, fingers tapping on the table top. Nobody else is paying them any attention anymore. He shakes his head, looking thoroughly amused. 

Patrick shrugs. Down the table there’s a disagreement on whether or not Jonny’s a bad captain for not taking one for the team with Smitty. Smitty looks mortified, arms crossed over his chest. Patrick raises his voice, “Sorry, bud, pretty sure Jonny’s dick-trick only works on me.”

Jonny raises his water glass. “Cheers,” he says and takes a drink, but he’s gone an adorable pink across the bridge of his nose. 

The guys laugh and Shawsy announces, “Yeah, boy, get ‘er done!” 

“What the—” Bicks says as Duncs dryly states, struggling not to laugh, “Clang!” 

Patrick balls up his napkin and throws it at Shawsy. Jonny sits back in his seat, singularly unimpressed. “How does he get laid?” he asks rhetorically. “Seriously man, what?” 

“Always, Shawsy, always you go over the line!” Bick says, shoving at Shawsy’s face with his hand as Shawsy cackles madly. 

“Don’t you worry, Smits, you’re hot! We’ll find you somebody,” Shawsy announces gallantly, batting Bicks away. It sparks another loud argument on how to ‘fix’ Smitty’s problem. 

Patrick just leans back, nudges his knee up against Jonny's, and waits for the debate to end. Poor Smitty is on his own. Sometimes you just need to figure these things out for yourself.

**Author's Note:**

>  **joyfulseeker:** AND YOU WERE LIKE, SHOULD WE HAVE THE +1. that would have been a tipping point. we would have ended up at like 40,000 words or something.  
>  **fourfreedoms:** LOL, spent 26,000 words on Kaner fucking female Jonny?  
>  **joyfulseeker:** oh shit. you know it could have happened.  
>  **fourfreedoms:** IT COULD NOT. WE ARE NOT THAT BAD.


End file.
